There sat a slim pale girl, with three volumes in her lap, and a fourth in her arms. She had taken sanctuary in his library (which even housemaids durst not invade) for three weeks, but she was discovered at last.
The two gazed at each other in silence. Uncle Russelthorpe's sharp eyes began to twinkle under their heavy brows, Meg's grew large with despair.
"Upon my word!" he said slowly. "And what are you here for?"
The dining-room door opened at this moment, and the sound of voices reached them, Aunt Russelthorpe's high above the rest.
"Oh, don't call her! Please, please," cried Meg, with desperate entreaty. "I didn't mean any harm, I didn't really—I always have gone before you came in—I won't ever stay so late again—I came to—to get away from them all."
"Hm—so did I," said Uncle Russelthorpe; and he shut the door, and drew the thick curtain before it.
"How long do you generally stop, ghost?"
"Till the clock strikes half-past seven," said Meg.
"Oh," said he, "you had better keep to your time. Ghosts are always regular in their visitations, but don't make any noise if you want to haunt me. I don't allow bodies in here, only spirits." He glanced at her again under his eyebrows.
"You've not flesh enough to speak of," he said. "Yes, I think you may stay."